


The Forest Does Not Weep

by Lurea



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Entwives, M/M, Mortality, Post-Quest, what happened to the Entwives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-07 00:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15897222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurea/pseuds/Lurea
Summary: Ent draughts have after effects that are more than a paltry bit of height, or why was the Spring of 1420 so fertile?  Merry has a green thumb and a yen to explore the Old Forest.  Did Merry and Pippin ever find what Treebeard asked of them?





	1. Spring S.R. 1420

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fangorn](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/414483) by Zelvuska. 



 

The first time that Merry woke in a circle of green plants, it was outside Crickhollow, in the garden. Despite the fact that it was Frodo's house, deed drawn up all nice and legal, the erstwhile owner had given it over to Merry and Pippin's use. In the first months of their return, sudden noises would wake them and often as not, one or the other would creep from one bedroom to throw themselves down on the bed of the other. When birds woke him singing and his sleepy mind said, Fangorn, or Rohan or have the birds finally returned to Minas Tirith.... And then he would remember, no, the Shire. The thought always brought a mixture of longing, sadness and comfort that he wished desperately to avoid cataloguing in its entirety.

You won't save the Shire by being shocked and sad, dear Frodo, he had said to his cousin and then wanted to call the words back at the look on Frodo's face. Frodo was the bravest of all of them, always had been, and he spoke all of their fears for the future, both their own and that of hobbit-kind. He spoke and Merry chided because those fears would paralyze them, but they had meaning of a sort too heavy to bear with any certainty.

Merry awoke from a suffocating nightmare about orcs, about their eyes and claws and hands—all the things that he had said that he did not wish to remember and yet did. Pippin snorted and tossed restlessly over onto his back when Merry slid out from under the covers, careful not to awaken him. Pippin had his own unspoken memories that crept out at night like shy mice stealing the crumbs of his peace of mind. How often they featured a shining orb with a dark face at its heart, Merry could not say, but he would imagine that it was not infrequent.

He walked out into the garden, a small glad space carved from what had been an unbroken expanse of green lawn. Even here, reminders of the War and all that followed existed. The green belt of trees surrounding the house was greatly reduced: most had been hewn down and left to rot. One of Sam's trees stood to the West of the house, where it would shade the windows in future years. It was about six feet tall, a slender beech, with only the width of the mound at its base hinting at its future size.

He took a deep breath of the air, fragrant with leafy green carrot tops, new taters, chives and garlic. Then he yawned and stretched out on the soft ground, carefully between the rows of corn and taters, the plants so new and thin that they looked like a green mist in daylight. He stared upward at the stars, especially the bright one that lit Frodo's phial and finally drifted off to sleep.

The Sun woke him when she was high enough to shine into his eyes. All around him was the quiet rustle of growing things and the light had the greenish-gold quality of sunlight filtered through green leaves. A leaf brushed his cheek and he turned his head, grumbling to himself. Then he opened his eyes reluctantly, somewhat surprised that Pippin had not already awakened him. His eyes met the base of corn stalks and he frowned and then sat up abruptly. The rows of plants to either side of him were tall and green, with silk peeping from between the leaves on ripening ears. Closest to him, a morning glory vine had coiled up one tall stalk, and tendrils from it were draped across his left arm, with the smallest curled cozily around his littlest finger. He managed to slide his hand and arm free without damaging the plant and then carefully re-coiled it around another stalk that seemed....lonely. "There you must go, friend," he said aloud. "I cannot stay and be your support, not without ceasing my own growth."

He pushed through the stalks and stared around in frank wonder. The entire planting of corn was up, in various heights across the rows. The potatoes were full and shrubby, the thickness of the stems hinting at the potatoes nestled in the ground. He stepped through them and the stems seemed to fall away from his feet, sliding away easily like a caress that neither caused him neither to stumble nor damage the plants at his feet. He looked side to side at the corn, and to the flowers of the morning glory, turned upward to the Sun above, wondering. A tickle against his jaw and he found another green strand from the vine caught on the shoulder of his dressing-gown, a flower mid-way along open and perfuming the air. He laughed out loud and lifting it, returned it gently to the corn-stalk. Near as tall as he, and that spoke of growth sudden and unlooked-for. A thread of disquiet touched his mind, but surely nothing so beautiful could be a product of....anything that it shouldn't.

He went over to Sam's tree and touched the silky bark tentatively. Nothing. No uncanny movement, no sense of tossing limbs conveying whispers just beneath the edge of hearing.... It was just a tree and paid him no more mind than any, being intent on the slow spring of its own life, which still must seem indecently rapid. He gave the bark a comforting pat. Perhaps the oddity of the corn and other crops was merely that, an incidental left-over from a grain of Sam's Lorien-dust fallen from the winds in the night.

A nearby patch of strawberries was a tangle of greenery, close under the encircling hedge. He walked across to it and squatted down to examine them more closely. The serrated leaves were green and glossy, with tiny white berries just beginning to show. He stroked one of the soft leaves and whispered, "Grow."

Nothing happened, and he felt rather foolish. Now only let Pippin come from the house and find him bent over and speaking to plants. He would think Merry's wits had turned. He sat back on his heels and sighed. A door slammed and he heard Pippin's voice lifted in song. The day was begun and well begun, and he should yet be preparing himself to meet it. They meant to ride through the Woody End and on towards Tookland and Bywater for one last sweep for ruffians or similar. A score of young men from Buckland and Tuckborough were to accompany them and should be arriving at midday. Being on the road with Pippin at his side would be restful. His gaze strayed down to the strawberry patch as he prepared to climb to his feet and he stilled abruptly, his heart picking up its pace. The tiny white berries were flushed red and noticeably larger. He put out one hand to touch them and one fell off into his palm as easily as anything. He hesitated and then lifted it to his mouth, the bright, sharp flavor exploding onto his tongue. "Wonderful," he said with difficulty. "You have my thanks. I must go but I will return shortly."

He waited, his mind whirling, but all seemed as before. Finally, he arose, deep in thought and walked into the house.


	2. S.R. 1420

The neighbors at Crickhollow took it in turns to tend their garden when Merry and Pippin were away, as they frequently were. If the bounty was unusually large, as when one hobbit family thinned the carrots, whilst another harvested tatos and lettuces, only to have yet another see the laden plants and, grumbling about lackadaisical layabouts, have to repeat all the same work all over again, then none knew but perhaps Merry, when gaffers took him aside with complaints that invariably began with a list of work performed, which surely meant that no others were doing the very same work. Merry listened kindly, and assured the gaffers of his appreciation, for the very bounty of the garden was in turn the proof of the gardener’s excellent skill. They were appeased, each in their turn, bearing bushels of produce as if from a wide field, rather than a small kitchen garden. 

Merry, for his part, would stare out the window at it and wonder. He did not go out into it, lay hands on the plants and stroke their leaves, as part of him wished. He and Pippin had returned Frodo’s furniture to his house and replaced it with various bachelor pieces donated by each of their families. Among these oddments had been a hanging herb rack, with several bundles of meadowsweet, lavender, and rosemary. Merry had endured their presence for nearly a fortnight before carrying them quietly out to an unused corner of the garden and laying them to rest. 

By midsummer, it was with a weary sort of surprise when he noted that the parcels left for Pippin and himself contained fresh rosemary, lavender and meadowsweet. The herb rack, he placed into the very back of a cupboard with a stew pot and two kettles in front of it.


	3. Summer S.R. 1420

The first time that Merry went into the Old Forest in late summer of 1420 was a very different experience than it had been in the fall of 1419. He unlocked the wrought iron gate and immediately noticed the long runner of green ivy climbing up one side of the gate. As pretty as it was, he knew it meant that the Forest was once again attempting to encroach on hobbit lands. He sucked his teeth thoughtfully and held the gate open for Pippin. 

“It’s funny to think of all the trees that we encountered in our travels, the most unfriendly are right on the borders of the Shire,” Pippin said and then stopped, still inside the cut, looking around distrustfully. 

Merry locked the gate behind them and regretfully, pulled the ivy loose from the wall. It was only shallowly rooted and he pulled it out without difficulty. He suppressed an odd feeling of shock and sorrow that seemed to emanate not from him but from—these fancies were most un-hobbit-like! “If you will trespass, such things will happen,” he told it firmly. 

He carried it out of the cut and twined it around one of the young oaks next to the Hay. It would re-root itself easily enough and if the trees of the Old Forest were going to send invaders, then they could take on their sustenance as well. Pippin rolled his eyes. “Talking to the plants again, Merry?” he said, his high voice sweet. “You and Sam are quite the pair!” He laughed. “Tell me what they answer.” 

“Bother that,” Merry replied. “Let’s walk to the Bonfire Glade.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around closely. Something felt.... different. Different yet again than any time previously. When he’d come in alone, as a young hobbit, the trees had seemed mostly indifferent. When he brought Frodo, Sam and Pippin, they were frankly angry and filled with ill will. And now? 

The Forest was outwardly unchanged, close and still in the warmth of afternoon. Insects buzzed, humidity dripped from mossy low-hanging branches. One such drip fell on Pippin’s hair and then marked his shirt, and he exclaimed in annoyance while looking up at the tree in question. As if on cue, another droplet fell and splashed on his forehead. Pippin wiped the water out of his eyes. “Point to you, I suppose,” he said in a grumbling tone. 

There was a path, if one narrowed one’s eyes and squinted. An area that roughly corresponded with other memories of other visits where the trees appeared thinner. Fallen leaves carpeted the ground between the grey trunks of the trees. Hobbits came through periodically to cut back thistles and thickets, clearing and opening the area by the High Hay and the path. Merry paused and set a hand upon a gnarled oak, twisted from the winds of many winters. It had a large knot in the trunk where a long-ago limb had broken away. Part of the inner wood protruded like the snarling muzzle of a wolf, pale like the white wolves that had once invaded the Shire during the Fell Winter, over a hundred years ago. Swirls in the bark resembled fur and.... and eyes. 

Pippin nudged his shoulder and Merry realized that he had been standing silent for several moments. “What is it?” Pippin asked. 

“Nothing,” Merry replied and then gestured to the knot. “But do you recall seeing this before?” 

Pippin regarded it doubtfully. “No? Looks a bit wolf-like, doesn’t it?” 

The tree’s girth was a good dozen feet or so. Well over a hundred years old, if the lore he remembered from the tree wardens was correct. Had it stood here during the Fell Winter? 

Well, it had not stood _there_ during the Fell Winter. He certainly would have noticed this tree when he’d cast about for the path last year. It had stood _somewhere_. He noted healed lighter-colored marks in the bark, lower to the ground. Like scratches. Or claw marks. 

He pulled his hand away and straightened with an effort. Pippin was already looking at him curiously, and then at the tree, as if he expected it to start moving. Or walking. Huorns wrap themselves in shadow when they move, he remembered with a start. No unusual shadows or mists here in the midst of day. 

He squared his shoulders and moved past the wolf tree, the guardian. He had stood against more frightening creatures. He meant no harm, but he _was_ curious. 

Pippin’s hand swung against his as they walked, once, twice and then caught, clutched. Wordless, they clambered over fallen trunks and around thick clusters of trees and onward. When they reached the bonfire glade, all seemed unchanged. No trees, but rough tall hemlock and fire-weed, and plenty of nettles and thistles. They were walking and not riding and Merry anticipated the stickers with a wince. But despite this, they crossed unharmed. Pippin was whistling under his breath and swinging their joined hands, but Merry could feel the perspiration on his palm and knew that he was not as careless as he seemed. 

They reached the other side and paused before plunging back amongst the wood. They hesitated and Pippin cocked a wary eye at him. “Is this far enough? Or are you determined to lose us once again?” 

Merry scanned the greyish-trunks for an opening. “The path that led to the hill—wasn’t it more or less due East?” 

Pippin wrinkled his nose. “Your memory for that is better than mine. I just remember wandering for nearly an age and then getting dropped into a hole.” 

Merry swallowed hard. He remembered being trapped in the willow tree, the wood creaking around him in malevolent whispers, promising hurt and pain. Knowing that Pippin lay below him, gasping in terror, flailing about in the hollow. Each movement accompanied by creaks and crunches of old bones, fragile and feather-light on a grave of drifted leaves and twigs. “Not that far,” he promised. Pippin looked troubled but nodded. 

They paced the border of the glade twice more before they saw it, a thinning of the trunks in one direction, which when they pushed out through the intertwining branches of the border trees, resolved into a relatively wide path, even open to the sky in some places. 

Pippin pursed his lips and looked at Merry hard. “That was not there before.” 

Merry suppressed a sudden lightening of his heart, that made him want to laugh in delight. “Soonest done, soonest ended,” he said instead and swung their joined hands up and planted a kiss on the back of Pippin’s fingers. They stepped out onto the path sturdily, Merry’s steps quick and sure and Pippin’s no less, for all that he trailed Merry a little and looked around more. 

The air was hot and stuffy, and the trees were close on either side, mostly leaning over the path, before occasionally relenting and drawing back enough to let them see the sky. They felt like rabbits, scurrying in the undergrowth, the scent of decayed leaves and earth heavy in their nostrils. Merry was drawn forward, almost irresistibly. He did not feel the leaden depression that Frodo and Sam had described, the malice like cold water, weighing down the heart and limbs. 

Instead, there was his own curiosity, and a no-doubt foolhardy desire to see more of the Forest. He, they, have witnessed heroics, but also stupidity, ignorance, arrogance and evil. Which of these were the Forest? None, he began to think, but its own self, belonging only to itself and welcoming no intruder. It was a green swath of growth and life, not inherently hostile but concerned with its own business and the slow turn of the years and the seasons. 

The path gradually narrowed until he and Pippin were walking through a green and brown tunnel, with draping limbs straggling downwards into their path. He held up one such limb for he and Pippin to walk beneath and then stumbled on a hidden root, and released it abruptly. Winced in anticipation of the sting of the branch against his face and closed his eyes. 

Nothing, except the faint passage of air past him. He opened his eyes and turned about. The branch was still swaying gently, but no part of it had touched him. Was it—hanging lower? He grasped it gently and tugged it forward and then released. The arc of its swing came nowhere he and Pippin. 

Pippin fidgeted restlessly beside him. “Yes, you saw it,” he said sharply. “Can we turn back now?” 

Merry cocked his head, listening to the quiet. “A little further. To the hill.” 

Pippin’s reply was quick. “I am not going with you to see _him._ ” 

“We wouldn’t find him unless he wanted to be found anyway,” Merry said. The path opened up again, and allowed them a glimpse of the sky and of a green-crowned hill some distance before them. From there, they should be able to see the line of the Withywindle and the valley that had led them to the Willow tree. To see it only, was all that Merry wished. So he told himself. 

But instead, only a short distance past that initial glimpse, they came upon an unexpectedly deep hollow, the sides nearly as steep as a cliff and so choked with vegetation that they could not see the bottom. It cut directly across the path that they had been following and marched north-south as far as the eye could see. 

Pippin’s face was grimed with smears of dirt where he had wiped the sweat from it, and his eyes were solemn. “Thorns.” 

Indeed, most of the thick undergrowth bore wickedly sharp thorns. Merry picked up an acorn from the forest floor and tossed it in, with a quick knowing glance at Pippin. A faint initial noise of the acorn striking green boughs and then nothing. Merry craned his gaze for a hint of a safe downward path, a hint of less resistance and saw nothing, except— His eyes snagged on a tree halfway down the slope, its base buried in thorn bushes, and looking as if it had stood there unobserved since the dawn of the first morning over the Forest. A queer knot was on the side facing them, lighter colored than the bark around it. A knot like a snarling wolf’s-muzzle. He pointed at it silently, and felt Pippin stiffen next to him. 

“That’s as clear a ‘keep out, we don’t want you here’ sign as I remember seeing,” he said lightly. “Are we ignoring it?” 

Merry looked at him fondly. “Don’t lets,” he answered and held up one hand in surrender. “We’re going,” he said to the dark damp trunks pressing in close, with their leafy crowns blowing in a wind the hobbits could not feel. The path behind them was still open and easy to traverse, and it was only a short time later that the hobbits were passing through the cut and closing the door behind them. Pippin felt it was a handy escape. Merry thought it was a bloody shame, but he kept that to himself.


	4. Fall S.R. 1437

The first time that Merry brought Theoden into the Old Forest, Estella was furious. The boy was ten and mad with curiosity about everything to do with the old stories and tales. He badgered his nurse for them, wrestled Pippin into answering endless questions and generally showed an un-hobbit-like interest in lore and philosophy. It delighted Merry no end. His little cousin Faramir showed no corresponding interests, although Sam’s daughter Elanor was clearly far more studious than her father had ever been. 

The interest had been inflamed rather than satisfied, by the visit of King Elessar and Queen Arwen the year before. They had set up a great pavilion on the great East Road, outside the borders of the Shire, for the King held himself to the law that no man must enter the Shire. For the first time, the boy had heard stories and songs about the Fellowship, about Nine-fingered Frodo and his stout-hearted Companions and connected them to the uncles and visitors that he had known his whole life. 

Merry had caught Elanor reading to Theo and Faramir and young Frodo from the Red Book and while he appreciated—far more than most!—an older cousin’s indulgence to youngsters, it had only served to focus Theoden’s attention on the Old Forest even more than it had previously been. 

While Merry generally approved of the boy’s interests, this one came close to upsetting the delicate balance in his life. There were no plants or flowers within his suite of rooms at Brandy Hall. His lady wife kept no rose gardens and their quarters were down a quiet and seldom-used hallway that was further underground than most. 

When the tree that Sam had planted at Crickhollow reached thirty feet, far outstripping the others that that worthy hobbit had planted, it had earned a visit from the master gardener himself. He found nothing odd or exceptional about the tree, but the thoughtful look on his face put the wind up Merry. Frodo’s last voyage was barely a year in the past and already folk in Hobbiton were murmuring of Sam as the next Mayor. His own parents were focused on arranging his marriage, as Pippin’s were for him. So he began spending more time in Brandy Hall, a time marked by a series of inexplicable incidences of tree-roots collapsing ceilings and clogging pipes and being a marked nuisance. When he’d discovered his current haven, the incidents stopped. 

Merry had occasional resentful thoughts that he and Pippin had eaten the same foodstuffs and drunk the same drinks and yet tree roots did not wrap themselves about the Smials and damage the plumbing. 

After incessant pleas, he finally gave in during the fall of 1437. At first, the trip seemed no more different or strange that any of the other times that he had entered the Forest. Yearly, more or less, since that first visit with Pippin, post-Quest. There was a stillness and a watchfulness that he did not mistake for hostility or evil. Always trade respect for respect. He made a point of accompanying the foresters who went in to clear the paths close to the High Hay and the Glade. It seemed to go well when he did so. One year he did not when Estella was brought to bed of their first daughter. Two hobbits stumbled into a gully and one broke a leg, and another was nearly crushed by a falling limb. 

Merry found the path to the Bonfire Glade with no difficulty after a long careful look around. He had not seen the wolf tree again. The Glade was the customary mix of tall, weedy plants, growing in profusion under the Sun. He picked Theoden up, despite the boy’s protests, and carried him across. Stickers and prickles did not cling to him, had not in years. He had stopped worrying about it and simply enjoyed it. 

On the far side, he set him down and they continued onward. The boy’s hand was tight and clutching at his father’s and he stayed quiet and wide-eyed. He was no stranger to long walks and they both had packs and walking sticks and supplies, although Merry had no intention of going any farther than the green-crowned hill that overtopped the Forest a short distance from the Glade. Dead leaves were thick and slippery under foot although neither of them stumbled. When the trees crowded close to the path, and overhung it, Theoden batted the branches away playfully and giggled. It was bright, cheerful sound and one that had not been heard in these woods in a long, long time. 

One such branch dipped down before them, almost blocking their path: so low that its leaves actually trailed upon the forest floor and Merry could see droplets beaded upon the glossy leaves. Theoden pushed it and it rebounded with a supple twist that shook water onto the boy’s face. He froze for an instant and then laughed, throwing his head back and trying to tug his hand free of Merry’s. “Papa, it rained on me!” 

Merry pulled the boy close, looking around at the Forest. Then he relaxed slowly. It was nearly unaccountable and yet, had he not hoped, suspected that some of his ease with the Forest might pass along to Theoden? He released him and summoned a smile, ruffling his hair. “Truly, you are all wet.” 

Theo stuck out his tongue at his father, and Merry took his hand, suddenly unsure about persevering. He chanced a look over one shoulder and was dismayed to find the path behind them dark and gloomy, barely visible. He suspected at this point, that if they turned back, they would find the way difficult. Difficult... but not impassable. He had a choice, such as men or hobbits had not offered these ancient beings. Some of these ancient beings, he amended mentally. Were they curious? Did Theo’s high hobbit voice echo down through old memories? 

In this manner, they passed easily along the way. At one point, the path was crossed by a narrow washout, some half-a-dozen feet deep. Merry stood on the brink for a long moment, staring down at the tumbled stones that littered the base and remembering a sharp defile, steep and filled with thorns. He glanced around at the trees lining the path, two pitched precariously sideways by the gash, but none were familiar. Theo tugged his hand impatiently. He picked him up again, ignoring the boy’s squirms and protests and slid down carefully. Then picked his way across the loose soil and set him down to climb next to him, up the other side. Once they were back on the path, the way seemed easier, quicker, and they moved with renewed energy, until they were climbing the slopes of the tall green hill. For the first time, Merry found himself wondering why this hill stood here—so distinctively bare among the green sea of trees around it. 

Once atop the summit, they stared and walked all about in all directions. Theo’s keen young eyes picked out the faint ribbon of the Road to the North, and the shadowed fold of land where the Brandybuck flowed. Merry looked long at the tiny grey bumps of the Barrow Downs and then southward, where the trees spread like dark water over all the land. But some heat shimmer or mist rose from their tops and obscured his vision. He could not see the Withywindle or beyond, where he admitted to himself, he had hoped to see some glimpse of the fair valley of Bombadil. The East side of the hillock sheared off sharply, as if chopped by a long-ago giant. The very tall tops of the trees below stood in curiously regular rows and utterly blocked any view of what lay beneath the cliff. To the North was the wide deceiving path that they had walked before, one that twisted around and then made for the Withywindle like a maid skipping work to run to her lover. 

Theoden walked to the head of the track and craned his neck to look down it. “Let’s go on, then.” 

Merry shook his head. “We’ve come far enough for today. Let’s eat and then it will be time to go back.” He sat down and slung the pack from his back, keeping a wary eye on the boy. He stood still, head cocked, looking down into the endless march of growth and then shivered. Merry said sharply, “Theoden!” and the boy turned, his brown eyes wide. He came over and collapsed on the ground next to Merry, and Merry feared he’d taken some hurt, but he laughed again, bright and merry. He took a meat pie from Merry’s hand and took a large bite and Merry relaxed. A light breeze sprang up, toying with the curls in Theo’s hair and teasing his bangs down across his eyes. They had not walked enough to be weary, but still they lingered in the sunshine, Merry idly humming while Theo flung himself onto his stomach and twined clover into a chain. 

Contentment sure as springtime stole over his heart, and he sighed and ceased looking South, instead back West, toward home and hearth and all the loves of his life. The Sun ducked behind a cloud and a chill passed through him. He jerked upright, rubbing his eyes. Theoden was gone. 

In another instant, he was loping down the steeply tilting path, cursing himself and the Old Forest and Bombadil and himself again, for being a fool twice over. First, to have brought the boy, and second, to have forgotten the mischief that a ten-year-old hobbit could create. Silently though, for he had no wish to disturb the drowsy lethargy about him, and he still remembered how quickly it could change. The path twisted as he remembered, aiming unerringly for the valley and Merry clung to the hope that Theoden could not yet be far ahead, on his short hobbitling legs. He passed a muddy rill and there, in the soil, were small footprints, clear as anything. He doubled his speed until he felt that he was running as lightly as an elf, with the wood bending and clearing before him, sliding roots away and branches back. He passed the spot where he and Frodo and the others had despaired of the path and turned northward through the Forest, an area where the trees seemed thin and open, yet soon closed in tighter than ever. This time, he stayed on the path. Onward and deeper, closer to the base of the hill and the Forest floor. 

And then he came around a cluster of young saplings and into a wider space and halted, breathing hard, eyes wide in amazement. 

He recognized it immediately, for all that he’d only seen two before. He was at the bottom of the steep eastern side of the mount, where bare rock climbed from the damp dark soil away beyond the tops of the trees that he had seen. Before him were two tall evergreens, like door wardens and beyond those, the trees marched in neat rows, splitting into four offset lines so that the space between was like a wide hall supported by fair green columns and a living leafy roof. The stone at the base had been carved out, revealing a shallow bay and channels in the stone diverted spring water over the face. It fell in a fine tinkling spray. Before this, entranced, Theoden stood. 

“Theoden,” he said, quietly. 

Theoden turned and smiled happily. “It’s so beautiful! The trees are so fine and lovely and this--” he waggled one hand impatiently, lacking the experience to voice his thoughts, “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before!” He clasped his hands together, looking younger than his ten years. “There was a song, no, a hum,” he frowned. “That’s not right either.” 

“As if the trees themselves were sighing and rumbling, almost too low for you to hear,” Merry said and Theo looked up in amazement. 

“That’s it, exactly! How did you know?” 

Merry had been moving forward, through the quiet ranks of trees until he was now near enough to grab the boy and pull him into a tight embrace. Theoden stared up into his face and something he saw there quieted his initial outrage. Merry sighed and pulled him forward, under the water. It was so cold that it tingled across their skin, flattening their hair to their scalp. Beyond was the bay. 

There was a stone table, smaller than the others that he remembered, but made of fine granite with flecks of mica. In full sun, it would shine with beauty. Even in the dimmer light at present, bits gleamed and shone, casting reflections like sparks across the walls. Further back, two small trees sheltered a long bed, layered with twigs and bracken. The trees had a smooth bark like that of a fruit tree, though they bore no fruit nor flowers. Merry stared hard at them before looking away. 

There was nothing there. Leaves drifted carelessly across the level stone floor and a thick carpet of soft moss thrived along the edges where the water fell. Two stone jars stood against one wall, but they were empty and dry as dust. Another bowl sat carelessly atop the high table, far over Theo’s head. Merry, straining on tip-toes could barely reach it and brought it down. It was filled with clear water, with a light fragrance of stone and leaves and living flowers in the bud. He tipped to his lips and took a sip and closed his eyes. So near they felt to him, so close. And yet, he could feel the age in it, too, the long years that it had sat, heedlessly awaiting one to return. But it was not stale. He sipped once more and then held it out to Theo. 

Theo hesitated and looked down into the bowl, where dancing lights from the mica bits shone on the surface. “Where are they? Why can’t we see them?” 

Merry said, “They’ve gone away. Where, I do not know.” He hesitated and added, “I wish I did.” 

Theo took a sip from the bowl and tears stood in his eyes. “I wanted to find them. I wanted to help them and have an adventure.” 

Merry smoothed down the curls of his hair, baby fine and fragile. “I know, love. I did too.” 

Theoden sobbed once more and then handed the bowl back, his plump child’s face seeming already refreshed and stronger. Merry set it carefully back atop the table and they passed through the tingling water, Merry noting that the bruise on Theo’s knee had disappeared. Outside he walked among the ranks of trees, looking carefully at each one. The wolf tree was just behind the rightmost of the door wardens. The muzzle was smoother, and perhaps it was just a trick of the light, but it did not appear to be snarling. That gave Merry some hope. He bowed solemnly, to it and all the ranked trees and Theo copied him clumsily. Then they followed the path back, toward the West and home. 

That was not the last time that Merry went into the Old Forest. Certain spring days, or windy autumn ones called him out into the sunshine or the brisk breezes and he would walk back and attempt to retrace his and Theo’s steps. But Merry never found that place again, and its silent hall and waiting sentinels, sunk deep in memory and repose.


	5. S.R. 1485

The last time that Merry and Pippin saw Fangorn Forest was near the end of their days. They did not enter the forest but instead camped just on the edge, barely underneath the fringe of branches. The Rohirrim soldiers that were accompanying them to Gondor camped some farther distance away and watched the forest with unabashed suspicion. They ate waybread and wrapped themselves in their blankets and cloaks. The fires of the soldiers burned low and they waited.

It was a dark night, made darker still by the stems of trees around them. Merry lay, hands loosely clasped with Pippin’s, every wrinkle and fold of the skin familiar and beloved. He drifted and dozed; thirty years ago, he could have stayed awake all night and greeted the morning with bright spirits but now that once-unbridled store of energy was slow and diminished.

At length, he opened his eyes in the very dark of night to find a dark shape standing quietly near. The trees were thick about he and Pippin and he could not see even a glimpse of the campfire that Elfwine’s men had kindled. Thoughts of Eomer brought a stab of grief, still near enough for tears.

“Treebeard,” he said quietly and the figure stirred. “Where are we?”

Pippin yawned and turned onto his side and then woke abruptly, starting up with shining eyes. “Treebeard,” he breathed.

The old Ent turned and despite the dark, the slow green and brown depths of his eyes were the same. Merry laughed for joy and sat up, the aches and pain of age receding like high tide before the Moon. Treebeard took them up upon his shoulders, and strode into the night, while the wind whipped their hair back from their faces and they looked at each other and smiled.

At a small Ent-house, no more than a sheltered copse with a low bed and a single jar of draught, they rested for a time and drank gratefully. Before it had felt like a living tide of energy flickering across their skin and wakening each particle of their being. Now it felt like a thankfully cool mug after a long, hot day, assuaging some previously-unnoticed lack inside and bringing a restful feeling of peace.

He set his bowl down and clasped the back of Pippin’s neck, drawing him close enough to kiss, his lips soft and warm beneath his own as he smiled. “You old fool,” he said and Merry chuckled.

“Indeed,” he replied and Treebeard laughed with them, before taking them up again and carrying them to a far high place, where they could sit upon a velvety carpet of soft grass and look out over the Forest. Very fair it seemed to Merry, far more than it had ever had before and his eyes drank in the sight with wonder.

But first, the news that he owed the old Ent. “We did not find them,” he said regretfully. “We looked.”

The old Ent looked at him shrewdly. “Yes. We Ents are slow—slow to anger, slow to rouse and most of all, slow to change. I think that whoever belonged to that dell did not want to found. That you set eyes on it at all, is the first true sign in an age or more.”

Merry was surprised. “You seem like you know more than you are saying, old friend.” He grimaced. “And far more than I know.”

Treebeard stared out over the vast sweep of the Forest below them. “There was a time when all forests were one and the sorrow of one fallen Huorn in the West was felt in the East. That time is no more, but some of us remember.” He glanced at them and his face became glad. “News comes by many roads, my young friends.”

Pippin laughed. “Good, because we are appallingly late!”

Merry had to smile. “Nearly fifty years. But—” he looked out over the trees again. “Here we are, at the last.”

Treebeard’s eyes were a brighter green, and focused on them keenly. “You told them?”

Merry was uncertain before the question. “Yes. And—” he glanced over to see Pippin’s pack still secure on his shoulder. “It is in Pippin’s book as well, the Thain’s book, I mean. From Frodo and Sam orginally.” He added, with a timidity that he had not felt in three-score years, “Should it not be?”

“It is good,” Treebeard said only, and with that, they had to be content. The talk turned and they became merry, and it seemed that they sat for much longer than one night, singing and laughing and talking of all the news of sixty years.

When the Sun began peeking her firey head above the horizon, Pippin yawned. Merry got up on his knees regretfully. “We must go, unless—” he looked at Treebeard thoughtfully, “Unless you can take us on?”

“Those men of Calenardhon, Rohirrim, would not appreciate that. And my Forest is not for such as they to traverse,” he answered, then gave them a stern look from underneath his bushy brows. “You—and your younglings—are welcome in Fangorn, remember.”

“We remember,” they answered, laughing to think of Theoden and Faramir as ‘young’, well-grown, and unusually tall hobbits that they were. And Faramir so much more solemn than his father, while Merry sometimes despaired of Theoden focusing on one thing at a time and not fluttering about like a moth dazed by light. But—he checked that old worry. That was no longer his concern. They would make their way as best they could. Theoden, at least, would remember the dell and the stories and Fangorn Forest.

Treebeard set them on his shoulders and bore them away to the border. When they emerged, it was to the great gladness of the Men of Rohan who were anxiously searching for them, although not daring to go far beneath the trees. They mounted their ponies and with a last long look, left Fangorn and never came there again, as living hobbits.

 

/the end/


	6. Appendix

Frodo and the hobbits leave the Shire and go into the Old Forest in September *SR 1418, Frodo is 50, Sam is 38 , Merry is 36 , Pippin is 28 . 

November 3019 (SR 1419) Battle of Bywater: Frodo is 51, Sam is 39, Merry is 36, and Pippin is 29. 

Frodo and Bilbo leave Middle Earth in Sept 3021 (SR 1421) : Frodo is 53, Sam is 41, Merry is 38, and Pippin is 31. 

*FA 2-6 (SR 1423-1427) technically unknown, but at some point, Merry marries Estella Bolger. Approximate: FA 5 (assuming Merry marries shortly before Pippin). 

FA 6 (SR 1427)) Pippin marries Diamond of Long Cleeve

FA 7 (SR 1428) Merry’s son Theoden is born (approximate as neither his name or birthdate is known). 

FA 9 (SR 1430) Pippin’s son Faramir is born 

FA 11 (TA 3032, SR 1432 ) Merry becomes the Master of Buckland, he is 49 and Pippin is 42 

FA 13 (TA 3034, SR 1434) Pippin becomes Thain, he is 44 and Merry is 51 

FA 15 (SR 1436) Merry and Sam and Pippin meet Aragorn at The Brandywine Bridge. Elanor is nearly sixteen and made a lady-in-waiting to Queen Arwen. 

FA 17 (SR 1437) Merry takes Theoden into the Old Forest. 

FA 63 (SR 1484) Pippin and Merry give their holdings to their sons and go to live in Rohan, and later Gondor. Merry is 102 and Pippin is 94. Eomer dies later that same year, and his son Elfwine ascends. 

FA 64 (SR 1485) Merry and Pippin travel to Minas Tirith to be with King Elessar, Pippin brings a copy of the Thain's book (the first copy made of the Red Book of Westmarch). 

FA 64-70 (SR 1485-91) During these years, Merry and Pippin die and their tombs are placed in Rath Dinen, later moved to be next to Aragorn's tomb. 

FA 83 Death of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien 

FA 120 Death of Aragorn, King of Gondor

_*FA= Fourth Age, SR=Shire Reckoning_


End file.
